Angel in a Suit
by Ella Press
Summary: [For @anon on Tumblr] John Reese x Reader fic, in which Reese saves you from some very bad guys.
A/N: For anon on Tumblr who wanted a John Reese x Reader fic. This is my first attempt at such a thing (I didn't even know Reader fics were a thing).

The only thought you seem to be able to come up with as a bullet whizzes past you is _Why me? What did I do?_ At least you're fast, observant. You knew you had to duck when that man in a hoodie pulled his gun out. A lot of people would have frozen on the spot, resulting only in their death. Not you, though. Your mum always said you were the smart one of the family.

But being smart doesn't really count for much now, because your bag is on the bench on the other side of the room, and the 9mm your dad gave you as a gift just last month ("Because everyone needs protection") is tucked safely away. Not that you'd do much with it. Guns make you nervous. But you carry it anyway, to give your old man some peace of mind.

You've counted three armed men, all in hoodies, all of them wielding the new Glock model your dad was drooling over when he bought your gun last month. The door's blocked by one of them, but at least you have some lockers to hide behind. You check for possible escape routes, the small window to your right seeming to be your only option.

The shots continue, but something tells you that the man closest to you should be running out of ammo soon. You don't have time to think about how you know this, how your mind could possibly be counting the shots fired and keeping a tally at the back of your brain.

One more shot. One more and you'll make your move. You can't stay here forever, running among lockers with no other way to escape.

Do you feel it? The rush, your blood, your heart pumping in your throat, be careful, swallow it down. You only have the one. Listen.

Silence.

Footsteps.

Close your eyes.

And go.

The window's farther than you hoped it would be, but there's no going back now, you've been spotted, three guns trained on you and you pray, please, please, just let me live. Just. This can't be it.

And then.

A body drops. Another. You hear the thud, you recognise the sound from your training, you know how a body falling to the ground sounds like. And now you do freeze, because the third body just hit the floor, and you are sure that whoever got rid of the people who were after you could very well just be the one who decided to end you and take the prize all for himself, if that's even the reason you are being hunted.

Don't breathe. Not a peep. You have some experience in controlling your heartbeat, your respiration, but this is not something you have trained for. You hope this unknown person can't hear your heart rattling in your chest. But you can, and the sound is so loud, it drowns out everything else.

Which is why it's no surprise that when he rounds the locker you're leaning against, gun in hand, hair dishevelled, and a nasty cut on his temple, you jump away from him, hands held high, a plea in your eyes.

You're speechless, your throat's closed off, you're having trouble breathing, speaking, thinking. You think maybe your dad was right, you can never be too careful or too paranoid. You should have been more involved in his lessons on how to handle your weapon.

This man, this calm force, is staring at you. He doesn't move towards you and you think, okay, maybe he doesn't want you dead, maybe he just wants the ransom you're probably worth. Even though you know that the salary of your parents, combined, won't amount to much. But there's no other explanation as to why this man in a suit shot down the men trying to gun you down.

"Listen," he says, raising his hands in a gesture much like yours. "You've no reason to trust me, but I am here to help you." His eyes lock onto yours and you search for the truth in them, but there's such turmoil in those eyes, that you're left dizzy. "Now, we can stay here and debate whether or not I'm worthy of your trust, or we can leave before their friends come to see what's taking them so long. They're not alone, in fact, there's a van right out front waiting for them to bring you in."

Your eyes flit to the door of the locker room, expecting to see some other menace burst in. Your bag still sits where you left it, but to get to it, you'd have to go over the men in the hoodies and you don't think you could stomach it.

Beyond the door and the front window, you see a white van, just like the man said. The door opens and two men wearing hoodies stroll in. And right now, you might be crazy, but you decide to take your chances with the guy in front of you.

"Okay, let's go," you say.

"Good call." He looks the same way you are, and sees the new members of your party coming your way. "The window," he says, nodding towards the small window you were trying to get to.

You hoist yourself up, there's no bench beneath you and your arms are burning, but you make it through. The man in the suit is right behind you. He jumps up, and you pull him out, but not before you hear shots being fired on the inside, making your breathing hitch. You pull with all your might and he lands over you, and you could have said he's heavy if he'd taken one second to get up, but he doesn't dawdle. He's on his feet and dragging you along in the blink of an eye.

His free hand twines around your forearm, making you run along. He takes you to a car, puts you on the passenger seat, and jumps in himself before bringing the vehicle back to life. A bullet pierces your window, and he grabs your head and pulls it down.

"Stay down!" he screams, and you don't know how this man can drive and shoot at the same time, and you have to admit, you're pretty impressed.

Another shot shatters the rear windshield, but the man remains impassive through it all and you realise, you don't even know his name.

So you ask him.

"I'm John," he says. You've never heard quite a voice like his, it's like a superhero's. "John Reese. And tonight, looks like I'm your guardian angel."

You've no idea how long you've been driving around. You look out your smashed window, trying to commit to memory the places you pass by, in case you need to backtrack your steps. And all the while, that first thought, the one you had when this madness started, runs through your brain.

John's been talking to his partners, you can tell he's part of a group by the various names he uses. You don't ask questions. You simply listen. You've learnt a long time ago that that is the most effective way of getting your information, by paying close attention and keeping to yourself. You hear John ask someone called Finch if it's safe for him to take you to the safe house. When the other person replies, you guess it's a negative from the way John sighs in defeat.

Next, he calls someone else. And they talk about your parents. You feel your heart ready to burst through your skin, but then John looks at you, still aimlessly driving, and lets you know they are fine.

Relief exudes from your pores.

"Finch, where am I going?" he asks. He's getting restless, you see it in the way his fingers drum over the steering wheel, or the way he touches the corner of his mouth, how he looks out the windshield, his eyes never settling on a fixed point for more than two seconds. Then, his stance shifts, purpose lighting his eyes. "Got it," he says, before touching his ear to end the call.

You drive for over half an hour. Away from the city. You should be scared. A stranger is taking you away from your family, your home. But you've spent hours listening to him talk to his people. You've heard that your family's okay. And you think you know where you're going.

John parks the car in an almost empty lot, a hangar in front of you. He reaches behind your seat and pulls a paper bag from the back. Tossing it over to you, he tells you, "Finch says to put this on."

So you pull the items out of the bag and do as you're told. A short brown wig, a baseball hat of a team you don't even know, and a pair of big, red-rimmed sunglasses. You look at your reflection in the rearview mirror, and back to John, only to find him smiling. A rare sight.

"Cool sunglasses," he says, smirking.

You offer him a smile of your own before exiting the car, because you can see through the windshield, inside the hangar, your parents waiting for you beside whom you can only assume is another member of John's team.

You smile because you were right in trusting him. Because, when he said that he was your guardian angel for the night, it was not a lie.


End file.
